


The Tavern at the End of the Road

by AuthorinExile



Series: The Hero's Design [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins, Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Afterlife, Angst, Author loves to chat in the Comments, Bechdel Test Pass, Character Death, Death, Female Friendship, Female Protagonist, Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied Past Alistair/Warden, Implied Relationships, Loss of Purpose, One Shot, Past Relationship(s), Reader-Insert, Sort Of, Temporary Amnesia, The Author Regrets Nothing, The Fade, Why Did I Write This?, Will Write For Comments, for now, kind of, oblivion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 06:39:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13875270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuthorinExile/pseuds/AuthorinExile
Summary: The Hero of Ferelden dies, as heroes are wont to do.In a completely unrelated sequence of events, the (in)famous Dovahkiin of Skyrim also, tragically, dies.Because Fate can be tricky at the best of times, they stumble over one another in the afterlife.





	The Tavern at the End of the Road

**Author's Note:**

> Can be read as a standalone work or as a continuation of my previous works in these fandoms.

The Warden flinched, the blow landed, and when she opened her eyes, she was in the dimly lit, smoky corner of The Gnawed Noble Tavern that her company had always seemed drawn to.

  
There was a mug of warming ale on the table before her. Yusaris was settled across her lap in the sort of relaxed position that only came with familiarity and comfort. It was the sort of pose that she only adopted while in camp and surrounded by her ~~family~~ friends.

  
Her friends... 

  
She had no idea where they were, what they were doing, if they were _safe_ \--

  
“Easy there.”

  
A hand on her shoulder, heavy even through the Dragonbone armor.

  
The Warden looks up into smiling eyes, illuminated by some unquenchable internal flame, and angular features. The woman in front of the Warden is tall and slight, with a willowy figure and Dragonscale armor that shines an iridescent green instead of a crimson red. She has a bow on her back and a sword at her hip, and the Warden is only slightly puzzled that this woman would willingly touch her.

  
After the Blight, few could muster the courage.

  
“I said ‘easy,’ friend.”

  
The Warden shrugs away the hand. It was not wholly unwelcome, but being warm and welcoming rarely ends well for her. She’s learned that the hard way.

  
“Who are you?”

  
The Warden tries to sound fierce, tries to channel her physical strength into her words as she so easily accomplished in the past, but she only sounds frightened and confused.

  
She hates herself for it, just a little.

  
The woman before the Warden smiles and shakes her head, throwing black curls over pointed ears. She takes a seat before the Warden and helps herself to the mug of ale.

  
The warrior, the Reaver that always lurks behind the Warden’s eyes, notes that this mysterious woman leaves her weapons beside her in the booth but can’t decide if that is a gesture of comradery or an easily reached threat.

  
The mystery woman finishes the ale and makes a face.

  
“By the Divines, what swill do they drink where you come from, eh?”

  
The Warden sneers back.

  
“I would ask you the same since you clearly can’t tell fine drinks when you taste them,” she snaps with the acidic sense of humor that she all but abandoned years ago.

  
The mystery woman stares at the Warden, wide-eyed in shock, then falls back into her seat, howling with laughter.

When she finally calms, she says, “My gods above, it has been far too long since someone was willing to _sass_ the Dragonborn!”

  
The Warden blinks, confused.

  
“What is a Dragonborn?”

  
The Dragonborn--for that must be her title, mustn’t it?--grins at the Warden.

  
“Oh, I like you already.”

  
The Warden settles for a sigh and a simpler question: “Well, what are you doing here, in The Gnawed Noble?”

  
The Dragonborn leans back to look around the bar and mutters with an air of disinterest, “Is that what this place is? Must not be from Tamriel, are you? This doesn’t look like any tavern I’ve ever seen.”

  
“I’m from Ferelden. In Thedas?”

  
The Warden has no idea why she is telling a stranger these things. This Dragonborn is a mystery to her, this tavern is not quite as she remembers, and furthermore, she has no idea why she is here. The last thing she remembers is a battle…

  
_Darkspawn. A horde, not a Horde, but a group large enough to frighten even her. The scream of one of her men in the distance, the smell of blood on the wind, the stench of rot and dying things that always accompanied these monsters._

  
_A Hurlock pulls back his sword and she can’t--_

  
The Warden blinks, and whatever she was thinking about fades to the background of her mind, obscured by the hum of chatter and the clatter of dishes that always made a tavern feel warm and comforting. Like home.

  
The Dragonborn is watching her with sympathy in those fiery eyes and a tiny smile on her face.

  
“Memories,” she says to the Warden. “Pesky little things. Always creeping up on us, in this place.”

  
“We…are not in Denerim.”

  
The realization surrounds her, awakens her, and she is finally able to free her mind of the molasses-slow haze that was pulling her down, down, down into the sweet embrace of whatever creature was pulling at her.

  
The Warden has felt this before.

  
She felt this in the ruins of a campsite in the Brecilian Forest. She felt this on the floor of Redcliffe Castle as she battled for a young boy’s life without moving an inch. She felt this as she stood in Ostagar and listened to a Duncan with too-sharp teeth and too-dark eyes tell her that everything would be fine, the Blight was over, the Darkspawn were gone, and Alistair was waiting for her in her tent with a bottle of fine wine, and she could finally _rest._

  
The Warden blinks and sees the Fade for what it is.

  
“No,” the Dragonborn breathes, sympathy pouring from her in waves, “we are not.”

  
The Warden finally lifts her gaze and sees that she is alone in a room almost-but-not-quite identical to The Gnawed Noble.

  
_Almost_ alone.

  
The Dragonborn is still sitting across from her. Though the sound of chatter and movement remains, they are the only two creatures in the building.

  
“Why am I in the Fade?”

  
The Dragonborn looks around once more as the facade of warm comfort, summoned only by the mind of the Warden, melts away into the familiar black cliffs and blurry horizons of the sleeping realm.

  
“Is that what your people call this place? We always called it Oblivion. Or, at least, I’ve been assuming that I was in Oblivion.”

  
The Warden sheathes Yusaris and takes several steadying breaths.

  
“You did not answer my question.”

  
“Hm. No, I suppose I didn’t,” the Dragonborn replies in a calmness that grates on the Warden’s nerves. “Well, to tell you the truth, I don’t really know.”

  
The Warden can not help but turn to the Dragonborn in shock. This woman was aware of their location immediately, so she must be a mage of some sort. Which means she should know _something_.

  
The Dragonborn acknowledges the stare with a snort.

  
“Oh, calm down. I don’t even have a reason to lie to you. Honestly, I’m just grateful to meet another who can recognize this place for what it is. The number of people that have shunned me or attacked me just because I tried to loosen them from the grasp of this nightmare…”

  
The Dragonborn sighs, but the Warden had never quite shaken her habit of bursting into spontaneous lectures at the slightest lack of understanding, so the Warden hardly notices when she begins to speak.

  
“I have experience with the Fade and its inhabitants,” she says. “Most people who are aware of the Fade are mages of some sort. Very few regular people survive the sort of encounters that can lend an understanding of this place.”

  
“You must be an impressive type, then.”

  
“How do you not know these things?”

  
The Warden has stopped trying to sound forceful. In the Fade, there really isn’t much of a point.

  
The Dragonborn shrugs.

  
“I am not from this place you call Thedas. Well, not unless I have been here for much longer than I thought. I am from a country called Skyrim in a place we call Tamriel. I don’t expect you’ve heard of it?”

  
“How did you end up here?”

  
The Dragonborn shrugs, bringing her legs up to cross them in an almost childlike manner.

  
“I was in a fight. I lost. Apparently, I took a wrong turn on my way to Sovngarde--or wherever I was headed--and I found myself walking through the corridors of a house that I had lost years ago to a fire started by bandits.” She sighs sadly. “It took me...an immeasurable amount of time to realize that it wasn’t real.”

  
A chill sweeps over the Warden.

  
“Wait,” she starts, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice. “Do you mean to say that…that you’re dead?”

  
The Dragonborn shrugs.

  
“Well, I suppose so. This does seem like the sort of nightmarish hellscape that I’ve earned.”

  
Any notions that the Warden had about standing from the cold ground dissipate. Instead, she feels as though she is sinking, merging with the Fade itself and becoming yet another fixture for dreamers to stumble upon.

  
“I… Does that mean that I am, also?”

  
_Darkspawn--_

  
She can’t be dead, not yet. There was so much left to do. People still need her, and the Wardens…

  
_A Hurlock--_

  
Years have passed, but the Wardens are still rebuilding, still recovering from the nightmare that was Ostagar. She has responsibilities and companions and an entire league of Grey Wardens who need her.

  
_A horde, not a Horde, but a group--_

  
Is she…?

  
She had a mission, again. She was finally being useful again. She--

  
She can’t be--

  
_Darkspawn. A horde--not a Horde, but a group large enough to frighten even her. The scream of one of her men in the distance, the smell of blood on the wind, the stench of rot and dying things that always accompanied these monsters._

  
_Here in the Deep Roads, that stench is suffocating and inescapable._

  
_So, too, are the Darkspawn, but she fights anyway._

  
_A Hurlock pulls back his sword and she can’t dodge, she doesn’t have the time._

  
_The years spent alone, wallowing in her own misery and self-hatred, have made her sloppy, careless._

  
_She tries to feint, to roll back so that one of the other fighters nearby can help her escape this._

  
_She slips on a pool of greasy black blood, and the jagged edge of the Hurlock’s sword finds her throat._

  
_The thing does not roar_   _victoriously in the way that the Darkspawn of the Blight did. The Architect helped with that._

  
_The creature_ laughs _, and the Warden’s world goes dark, and--_

  
She opens her eyes to find herself standing near the edge of the impossible floating island that she and the Dragonborn are stranded on. The Warden’s face is soaked with tears that she does not recall shedding, but she makes no noise except a quiet sniff as she turns to face the only company available to her.

  
The Dragonborn is sympathetic.

  
“You didn’t know.”

  
The Warden shakes her head and wipes away her tears.

  
“I… No. Not until now.”

  
There is silence right up until the Dragonborn stands and approaches with one hand outstretched.

  
“I can’t possibly comfort you,” she says. “Not in any meaningful way. But I can offer you company, and that is what you will need.”

  
The Warden’s tone is more acidic than intended when she bites out, “And how could you possibly know what I need?”

  
“Because not so long ago, I was lost in an unfamiliar world full of things that I did not understand, and all I longed for was a friendly face that could share my burden.

  
“There is no way out of this place, my friend. Not for the likes of us. Wouldn’t it be easier to suffer together?”

  
The Warden turns to meet the Dragonborn’s eyes and sees, for the first time, the shadows cast by that internal fire.

  
Here is a woman who has suffered remarkable and terrible burdens. Here is a woman who has felt the weight of all the world sink onto her too-small shoulders. Here is a woman who has known what it is to stand in the crowded hall of a castle, surrounded by cheering nobles giving their enthusiastic thanks and a handful of congratulatory companions.

Here is a woman who knows what it is to stand amidst that crowd of untold numbers and still be completely alone.

  
The Warden looks into those knowing eyes and sees herself in their depths.

  
She takes the Dragonborn’s hand.

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to write this with two unnamed women without making it too confusing, but I'm worried that I might have failed horribly. Please let me know if part of this is confusing and, if so, any suggestions you might have on ways to make it clearer.
> 
> If you would like to see more of this work, let me know down below!
> 
> Liked it? Hated it? Tell me what you thought!


End file.
